


The Picture of Sherlock Holmes

by CarmillaCarmine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Captain John Watson, First Meetings, Johnlock Roulette, London, M/M, MCD, Montmartre, Not Canon Compliant, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Painting, Paris - Freeform, Picture, Sherlock is Dorian Gray, Travel, Victorian, inspired by the picture of dorian gray, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, a rich and frivolous man, after a lifetime of debauchery finally falls in love. His heart chooses Captain Watson.





	The Picture of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> My love for Victorian lit and constant rereads of The Picture of Dorian Gray inspired this fic. It's my first attempt at a Victorian fic, and I can just hope I translated to paper at least half of what I saw in my head for this story. Major character death warning, please continue with caution. 
> 
> Written for Tumblr's "Sherlock Challenge December 2018: PAINTING"
> 
> Special thanks to my beta @MsScarlet and @[The_Persian_Slipper](https://thepersianslipper.tumblr.com/)  
> for additional notes

** **

** The Picture of Sherlock Holmes **

**“Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”**    
**\- Lord Henry, The Picture of Dorian** **Gray** **by Oscar Wilde**

 

Sherlock  Holmes  was a rich man, a frivolous man. His grace, beauty and reputation preceded him. He was known for his idiosyncrasies to rich and poor, to the chaste and to the debauched. His tale is one of the beauty of the body and the corruption of the soul.

One June evening  Holmes  decided to travel to Paris to explore the houses that a man of his stature and preferences liked to frequent, Folies Bergere being one of his favourites. And he frequented it a lot. The journey from London was a long and gruesome one. 

After a day spent exploring more bodies that he could remember, ennui settled in. He found himself walking up towards Le Chat Noir in the district of Montmartre. 

The stairs leading to his destination, steep in its entirety, represented in and of themselves the struggles with boredom that Sherlock underwent on a daily basis.   

The sight of windmills and vineyards greeted a visitor to the artistic district, as the top of the hill hosted artists, writers, painters, musicians, sculptors and architects waiting to be discovered. 

Once he was there, every painter craved to capture  Holmes ’s likeness, but it was a young gypsy girl who convinced him she was the one to do it. Matted long black hair fell over her shoulders and numerous strokes of paint blotched her cheeks from brushing her hair away. 

In the middle of the crowds, with people looking at him, tall and handsome, dressed in the latest trends, he sat, waiting to be painted, the brush held by a thin, young, and seemingly inexperienced hand. The June sun landing on his features, added an ethereal glow to his beauty. 

She asked him questions which he didn’t care to answer truthfully, but when she struck a soft spot, he finally caved.

“I’m afraid of getting old,” he confessed, “of my face being covered with wrinkles, of withering and dying as an ugly old man.” He spat the last words with disgust, knowing she would think him vain. He didn’t care. Her opinion didn’t count. Her funny, little brain couldn’t grasp his greatness. 

She smiled at him then, showing an incomplete set of yellowish-black teeth, a clear evidence of poor diet. Her gaze, however, was hauntingly knowing.

“I can make your fears go away, Sir” she whispered, her eyes darting right and left as if she was telling him a secret. “What would you say if this painting aged and showed all the scars and ugliness the life will burden you with, instead of your own body?”

“Are you mocking me?” he bellowed not bothering to mask the outrage in his voice.

“No, Sir! I wouldn’t dare!” she gasped. 

_ “If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that - for that - I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!" _ _ * _ __

“All I'd need is your soul, Sir,” she whispered now, her tone taking a dramatic turn.

“Ha. I’ve been known not to have one. However, you may take it, if you find it,” he declared.

He laughed then, his voice booming and well-practiced in its theatrics. Regretting wasting his time for a lunatic’s brush stroke, he stood up. From his pocket, he withdrew several coins which he tossed in her direction. Seeing she indeed had the talent, he took the painting, the length of his forearm, with him. It was a wonder how she had managed to finish the portrait in such a short time.

“You’ll come back, Sir,” she laughed, a mirthless laugh tinged with disdain as she picked the coins he threw from the cobbled street. The sound of her voice accompanied him as he descended the stairs of Montmartre. “You will be looking for me and I shall be waiting.”

-

Holmes  had the painting hung over the fireplace at his estate in London. It was a beautiful place, surrounded with an overabundance of trees and well-tended gardens which splendour was talked about in society’s high circles. They talked more, however, about the banquets Sherlock Holmes held in his own honour. 

Everybody who came to his lavish parties praised the painting, its beauty and the accuracy of the reflection of the person who sat for it.  Holmes ’s  phantasmagoric tales were capturing the imagination of his guests.

Holmes  devised a story about a talented artist who had yet to be discovered as his privacy was of utmost importance to him. The mysterious artist, an individual of a high social standing, had been so besotted with his beauty he begged  Holmes  to sit for the portrait.  

Holmes  continued his life of drink, cocaine, and debauchery and as the months went by, he barely spared a glance at the painting. That was, until the night he was mugged returning from the opera. In the process of fighting for his pocket watch, he’d been cut on his cheek. 

Upon arriving at his estate, holding a handkerchief to his face in order to stop the bleeding, he sat by the fireplace to rest. It was then that he noticed the bleeding had ceased. He looked at the fabric in his hand then touched his face, refusing to believe what his eyes and touch portrayed as facts. 

Everything became clear when his eyes lifted to the painting over the fireplace. He was aghast; his gasp echoed off the walls of the large sitting room as the painting looked at him with the eyes of a devil. The face on the portrait still remained his but had a cut on the left cheek, in the exact spot where he had been cut just a mere hour prior. 

The crazy gypsy woman had been right after all! A well of possibilities opened in front of him. He had no need even for the slight restraint he had employed till now.

_ What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive. _ _  ** _

From that day forward, Sherlock  Holmes  became known for his obscene behaviour, even more lavish parties and the most sophisticated debauchery London’s elite had ever heard of. Every woman and man wanted to grace his bed, and most often, if they were pretty enough and young enough, he obliged. 

-

The first encounter was a peculiar one. 

On a frigid December evening at the opera,  Holmes ’s eyes landed upon a man in a military uniform sitting next to a pretty girl. Judging by the familiarity of their movements and the way she leaned slightly to his side, she was his fiancée. It wasn’t the girl that caught Sherlock’s eye, however, but the man. 

Holmes  followed them outside after the last act, marvelling at the man’s sure military gait and strong build. He introduced himself and offered to walk with them. The conversation that ensued was a pleasant one and in consequence,  Holmes  offered them dinner at his place. They accepted. He, not knowing who Sherlock  Holmes  was due to his military career keeping him abroad; she, arriving from Sussex just a few nights before to meet her fiancé in London. They introduced themselves as Captain John Watson and Miss Rosamund Moran. 

They had dinner at his place. The couple was struck by the effulgence of his estate, their faces openly awed once they settled inside, Miss Moran clutching the baubles at her neck.

Holmes ’s servants brought exquisite food, the like of which his guests clearly had never tasted before. They poked at the most intricate dishes and quaffed the more plebeian. Looking at them, he thought it queer to find himself so fascinated, yet he could not deny the pull the man had on him.

After dessert and more wine, he asked them to dance so he could watch and although initially confused and shy, they took to the polished boards and swayed to the music of the violin he played. Brahms’s Waltz Opus 39 seemed appropriate. 

He was known for his talent when it came to the instrument as well as his unabashed flaunting of his musical prowess. 

She was the epitome of grace and  Holmes  would, under any other circumstances, be taken with her beauty. But it was him, the military doctor, as he had learned during dinner, who was even more magnificent and took all of his attention. 

The officer was unsure in his movements during the dance, nonetheless  Holmes  was unable to keep his gaze from him. He finally asked Captain Watson to dance, offering instructions to improve his skill without offending the man.

The surprise on the couple’s faces was impossible to miss but, slightly corned, they obliged him, grateful for the dinner and his warm welcome.

The euphonious music coming from the phonograph, enveloped them. He had spent a small fortune on importing it from overseas. It was playing the same tune  Holmes  had, as he had recorded it beforehand. 

Stiff and awkward was the soldier’s stance in  Holmes ’s embrace initially, looking up at him with wide open eyes. The confusion in them evolved into something else entirely as their dancing progressed. Captain Watson was addled, but the longing emanating from his body made the decision for him.  Holmes  found himself lost in the gaze of his new-found dance partner.

Chopin’s Waltz Op. 64 no.2 continued on the recording, this time in  piano  as they glided with  more  ease.  Holmes ’s hand rested on his dancing partner’s lower back and descended ever so slightly. He wasn’t met with any protest and soon it was just the two of them and the music, as if nothing else existed. 

In the doorway, before the couple left, the soldier’s lingering gaze suggested he’d come back to him the first moment that he got a chance. 

He returned later that same week under the pretext of being asked to attend a military meeting, leaving his fiancé at her current lodgings.

They ate, then danced for hours, talking about books and music as they did. Sneaking soft caresses that became bolder as the Hollands in the bottle became scarcer.

_ "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself,” _ _ *** _ __ he told his soldier in the most alluring tone he could muster. 

They touched more daringly, right there in the middle of the ballroom. Gently at first. Soft grazes then nuzzling, followed by kisses. On the lips. On the neck. Lower and lower.

Soon enough, they became a tangle of limbs on the floor, passion overtaking them. The heat of their intertwined bodies warmed them in ecstasy.  

The fireplace dimmed and servants were ordered to keep away for the remainder of the night.  Holmes  fed his soldier fruit to satiate one hunger before moving onto the next. They danced but this time in horizontal position, revelling in the touches, caresses, and the sticky mess. 

The  ardor  of his heart was an anomalous feeling for Sherlock. In the embrace of the man next to him, he felt complete. 

He felt... happy. 

Not the wealth, not parties, food, music, dancing...nothing made him happy. Not like this. Not ever. He wanted to capture this moment and live within it for the rest of eternity.

“What’s your full name?” he finally asked his soldier-doctor, surprised this topic hadn’t come up before

“Captain John Hamish Watson,” he said with a military nod of his head, so out of place considering the nakedness of him, “at your service,” the last words were said in a lower voice and  Holmes  felt a reward was due for that as he leaned to steal yet another kiss. Another touch. Another stroke.

In the morning, the captain was gone and  Holmes  got the morbs; felt loss and anger at his absence. It took him the whole morning to identify those feelings, since the combination with the ache in his chest was one that he had never felt before. 

He ruminated on how to get rid of the inconvenient fiancé and convince his soldier to stay with him. 

Sherlock  Holmes  hadn’t thought of the painting from Paris for a long time. It lay hidden in the cellar, covered with a sheet and years-old dust. The moment  Holmes ’s lifestyle started showing on the painting too clearly, he had it taken down. The sight of it repulsed him. As he missed his soldier, he thought of the portrait. How it made him live forever and how he wanted to spend the rest of that time with the man he had spent all night tangled with.

He found out where the engaged couple spent their nights in London and visited them. He located the Captain’s lodgings with ease. The heated look was back in the man’s eyes the moment  Holmes  passed the threshold of the one-pair. Alas, his stance was aloof, far from Sherlock. His fiancée was paying him visit as well and occupied a chair in the corner. She took one look at them and the realisation that painted her features promptly turned into disgust and anger. 

Miss Moran’s expostulations relayed her conditions, telling the soldier that she would remain with him only if  Holmes  never came back, never seek them out and left her future husband alone. 

The soldier tried to placate her, whispering soft words into her ear. Upon seeing that intimate gesture, fury erupted in  Holmes  and he leaped to unleash it on the woman. 

The knife from the table standing between them found its way into his hand. He slashed the woman. His arm was flailing, burying the knife in her flesh. His strokes were reminiscent to the brush strokes of an artist, painting with blood, splattering it on himself, the floors, his soldier.

The same one who now looked at him with horror. The warmth and lust of the previous night were gone from his eyes and only contempt remained. 

The bloodied knife hit the floor and landed in the ever-growing pool of blood.  Holmes  pleaded then. For the first time in his life, he begged for forgiveness but his wails fell on deaf ears. 

Captain Watson ever the soldier, produced a gun and threatened him with it. Told him to go and never come back. However, he was unable to follow up on his threat even when  Holmes  remained standing. His heart was too pure to shoot an unarmed man, even one who just committed a murder. 

Holmes  confessed his feelings, his need for them to spend their life together. In desperation, he told him about the painting and how he would find the gypsy to paint the soldier’s likeness as well. That way they could live together forever. Not wanting anything but each other.

_ “Never marry at all,  _ Captain Watson _... _ . John.” He allowed himself to use his lover’s first name. __ _ “ _ _ Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”  _

The soldier laughed, called him a lunatic. The gun in his trembling hand was still pointing at  Holmes . The soldier refused the life he was offered, telling him that the life he had chosen for himself was lying bleeding on the floor. The prospect of a wife and children, gone in a pool of crimson that was staining the wooden planks.

Realization flashed in his eyes then and  Holmes  panicked. He knew what it meant to have nothing even though everyone thought he lacked naught. If the soldier thought he had lost everything, he would refuse want to go with him, he would refuse to go anywhere ever again. That was the story his eyes told louder than the sound of the gun firing into his mouth. 

Holmes  leaped towards the man but he was too late. 

He had finally found meaning in his life only to lose it within days. In an act of desperation, he took the bloody body of his soldier and transported him under the veil of night to a boat heading for France. He threw riches at anyone who promised to take him straight to Paris.

Holmes  held his companion during the days long journey, refusing to leave his side until they reached Paris. 

His cadaverous companion remained hidden in the cab  Holmes  had rented which was marked with a red number 6.

Holmes  ventured to look for the gypsy woman. His long legs were tired but motivated enough to ascend the stairs to Montmartre with surprising speed.

He was still young-looking and handsome but with his hair dishevelled, his shirt torn and sodden with blood, and a pallid countenance, no one looked at him the way they had before. Only contempt and side glances were thrown his way as opposed to the envious sighs of men and the lustful noises of women he revelled in during his previous visit.

“I know you can hear me! Where are you?!” He yelled at the top of his lungs after hours of looking for the gypsy woman, asking every man, woman and child about her.  His peregrinating seemingly aimless.

Desperate, broken and on the brink of insanity, he collapsed in the middle of the square. That’s when he heard the voice of the gypsy painter above his ear.

“You have only yourself to blame. Your vanity killed you. It killed your heart only when you finally realized that you had one.” Her clairvoyance was uncanny. “How does it feel to find love just to lose it? How does the worst pain of humanity feel? I bet it’s excruciating. And that is what you will feel for eternity.”

“NO! I want you to paint his likeness. Make him like me. Alive no matter the trials of life,” he wailed, frantically waving his hands.

“What you ask of me is necromancy. I cannot make him like you. He’s already gone. And you have truly lived only a day in your life,” she said calmly, taking a step back as he tried to clutch her skirt.

“I want to die then.” he whispered disconsolately into the rocks where he lay. “Kill me!” He yelled now, standing up, his eyes searching for the image of the woman but the tears, blood and mud in his eyes made it impossible to find her. 

“Then you know what to do,” he heard her whisper before she disappeared.

He crawled to his carriage and asked the servant to take him home. The whole long way through the bumpy roads and the boat trip, he held the already decomposing body of his soldier in his arms. Stroking his hair,  Holmes  was careful not to touch the bloody hole in his beloved’s head.

Once at home, he carried his soldier to the cellar and laid him down on the cold stone floor.  Holmes  uncovered the painting of his face in a fast tug of the dusty sheet and screamed in horror at the image. He was still screaming as he slashed at it with a knife. 

The painting started restoring itself and  Holmes  started to feel the lashes he administered to it, on his face and his chest.

He collapsed next to his soldier and, with all of his remaining strength, pulled him closer in a tight embrace. He heard more than saw the laughter of what used to be his own face from the painting. Now perfect again just as it had been that June, years ago when it had been painted in the glorious Parisian sun at Montmartre.

**Author's Note:**

> * Quotes from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde 
> 
> Music for this fic:  
> [Johannes Brahms - Waltz Opus 39](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSji5Gamq8Q)  
> [Camille Saint-Saëns - Dense Macabre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM)  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | The Picture of Sherlock Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361452) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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